Haunted
by Gaerdir
Summary: Minerva McGonagall always wondered... Did the Headmaster ever sleep? Why wouldn't he?


**A/N: I am not J.K. Rowling. Any recognizable character is not mine.**

* * *

Minerva McGonagall always asked herself the same question every night she left the Headmaster's office.

Her wand tip lit the spiral staircase before her as she paused in thought… and worry. The Headmaster had been looking weaker by the day, and it was giving rise to concerns long buried.

She looked back at the door.

Did the Headmaster ever sleep?

But, inevitably, as always, in the end, she gave up; for she lacked the courage to ask, and the belief he would answer her.

The Headmaster confided in no one.

She sighed in frustration and continued her passage down the stairs, shaking her head silently.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore's unfocussed eyes were fixed on his door.

He had, of course, seen Minerva's dilemma and internal debate.

He knew the cause as well.

There wasn't much he missed these days. Over the years, his magical knowledge, and his power, had only grown. He had studied (and, yes, even explored) such abstract branches of magic; they were treated as folklore and myths by the young students passing through his school, learning magic lore.

He was a scholar at heart, and teacher at soul.

Then, why was he taking the role of a general?

Because he was the most suited for the job. Three of the Wizarding World's most powerful positions were occupied by him. Perhaps he was the greatest wizard of his age. He had accomplished more than most in his incredibly long life, save for maybe Merlin.

Then, why did he feel so empty?

Why was there no sense of accomplishment, no satisfaction with the way his life had been lived?

Albus Dumbledore knew the answer to this troublesome question as well.

Throughout his day, it hung around the edges of his mind, coiled like a thick fog, the strength of his will being the only power keeping it at bay. It pulled at his soul, and sapped his physical strength.

But it was when he closed his eyes that the cause struck.

Faces appeared in front of his mind's eye, their sightless eyes somehow managing to burn through him accusatorily. Physical features changed, blurring into nothingness; yet the stare stayed constant.

The accusation. The pain. The fear.

He knew each and every one of them.

He had taught them, watched them grow, cried with them, laughed with them, fought alongside them, supported them…

He had **lived** with them.

Dumbledore stood and strode to his moonlit window, both hands clasped behind his back. His half-moon spectacles glinted and his piercing blue eyes twinkled as he glanced at the full moon; but only for a moment.

Frowning, he turned.

_Friendship is one of the strongest bonds in the universe_, he mused. _Its strength is what is needed to set our society back on its feet._

Then, his thoughts turned dark.

_What makes friends go astray? What is the power of the Dark that seduces even the most righteous?_

_How can the Light possibly win this battle of eternity?_

He made a pulling motion with his hand, and a framed photograph flew into his grasp. He looked down at the smiling and waving students, all of whom the past war had taken its toll on. His saddened eyes fixed on to two faces, ones he wanted to see the most now.

The first, a man with hazel eyes and round glasses. Grinning widely, with stubbornly messed up hair, he had an arm around the second, a red-haired woman with a brilliant smile and vivid green eyes.

Albus Dumbledore drew a shaky breath, and gripped the frame tightly; before banishing it back to its shelf.

It was always worse when those who should have blamed you, should have hated you, instead forgive you; and all that does is intensify your guilt, because you don't believe you're worthy of their kindness. You, instead, wonder what you did to be given the gift of knowing such wonderful people, and how cruel you must be to have led them to their deaths.

He bent his head forwards in silent grief, mouth open in a grimace of pain. A single silver tear slipped down from Dumbledore's tightly shut eyes, down his worn and aged cheek, where it hung.

And then it fell.

We fall so we can learn to pick ourselves back up, you say.

But what if you fall too hard, too fast, into the poison of greatness, and the burden of leadership?

What if you fall so hard, you stand up and you look at your broken frame in disgust, and you fall all over again?

What if you had to keep falling, keep sacrificing, to keep others alive?

Would you be broken then?

What if you had to burn away your soul, and fill the empty spaces with pain and guilt, as you force your loved ones to fall with you?

What if you knew they wouldn't get back up?

What if you wished they didn't need to, just so they wouldn't have to face the terror of doing it again?

Would you be broken then?

Albus Dumbledore was a broken man.

He had lost track of the number of times he had fallen.

He had lost track of the number of people he had taken with him.

But he remembered them all.

He was haunted by them.

Dumbledore snapped his mental shields into place just as a knock sounded against his door. It was as if a barrier had been built instantaneously, holding back the pounding waves of pain and guilt, and the infernal, violent sea was stretching to infinity, never ending, always encompassing….

"Come in, Severus," He called.

The silver drop, shed not fifteen second before, but already forgotten, hit the floor and shattered.

Dumbledore would fall, and break, again.

The sea would only grow, never shrink. The waves would only smash harder, never softer.

Could he withstand them?

It was his destiny.

He would burn away at the soul he had left once more, to ensure victory.

It was his destiny.

He would be haunted by the dead.

* * *

**A/N: Review please! Hope you liked it!**


End file.
